UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


Selected     Poems    of 
Henry  Ames  Blood 


Selected  Poems 

of 
Henry  Ames  Blood 


Washington,  D.  C. 
The  Neale  Publishing  Company 

451   Eleventh  Street  N.  W. 
M  C  M  I 


Copyright,  1901,  by  Mary  M.  Blood 


•PS 


re  oi 

CONTENTS 


Jeanette 0 

The  Rock  in  the  Sea 11 

The  Chimney-Nook 13 

The  Last  Visitor 16 

The  War  of  the  Dryad* 17 

Yearnings 20 

The  Old  Year 23 

The  Two  Enchantments 26 

Fantasie 27 

The  Masque  in  Fantasie 30 

The  Grand  Orchestra 34 

Sighs  in  the  South 37 

Thoreau 40 

The  Invisible  Piper 44 

Shakespeare 46 

At  the  Grave ^  .  .  ...  49 

Pro  Mortuis 50 

The  Serene  Menage 51 

\i\ 


205490 


Comrades 52 

May  Flowers 53 

The  Fairy  Boat 56 

A  MidnigJit  Chorus 58 

The  Song  of  the  Savoyards 61 

Webster 64 

Old  Friends 66 

Margie 69 

Saint  Goethe's  Night 72 

The  Fighting  Parson 77 

The  Drummer  . 82 

Ad  Astra 87 


viii 


SELECTED  POEMS  OF 
HENRY    AMES    BLOOD 

« 

JEANETTE. 

IT  is  no  wonder  I  should  be 

More  sad  in  pleasant  weather, 
For  on  a  young  June  day  like  this 

We  strolled  the  fields  together ; 
O,  never  lived  a  maid  more  dear 

In  everybody's  praises !  — 
Jeanette  was  picking  buttercups 

And  I  was  picking  daisies. 

Her  beauty  and  her  grace,  it  seemed, 

The  saddest  heart  might  rally, 
But  though  she  gently  led  my  steps 

Through  all  the  quiet  valley, 
The  words  of  love  I  tried  to  speak 

Dissolved  in  empty  phrases  ; 
And  so  she  pulled  her  buttercups, 

And  so  I  picked  my  daisies. 

But  when  she  coyly  raised  my  chin 
And  with  a  charming  flutter, 

Held  up  her  golden  prize  beneath 
And  asked— if  I  loved  butter ! 

9 


10  JKANKTTK 

0  then,  in  words  that  blossomed  forth 
Like  flowers  from  heavenly  vases, 

1  told  her  how  the  buttercups 
Were  loved  by  all  the  daisies. 

She  often  visits  me  in  dreams, 

And  then  in  sumptuous  vision, 
We  walk  through  meadows  full  of  light, 

We  roam  the  Fields  Elysian  ; 
And  side  by  side  we  loiter  on 

Through  all  the  starry  mazes  ; 
She  picks  immortal  buttercups 

And  I  celestial  daisies. 

Where  now  so  peacefully  she  lies, 

Pale  evening  loves  to  linger, 
And  morning  comes  in  tears,  to  touch 

Her  grave  with  rosy  finger, 
And  every  June  that  rambles  by, 

A  moment  turns  and  gazes  ; 
Then  lays  his  offering  on  the  sod, 

In  buttercups  and  daisies. 

L'  ENVOI. 
Full  well  I  know  she  loves  me  still, 

For  oft,  through  skyey  portals, 
She  gives  to  me  the  sweetest  smile 

That  angels  have  for  mortals ; 
And  evermore  to  guide  my  steps 

Through  all  the  world's  mizmazes, 
Wears  on  her  breast  the  light  of  stars 

In  buttercups  and  daisies. 

Harper's  Weekly,  May  19, 1879. 


THB  BOCK   IN  THE  SKA  11 


THE  ROCK  IN  THE  SEA. 

THBY  say  that  yonder  rock  once  towered 

Upon  a  wide  and  grassy  plain, 
Lord  of  the  land,  until  the  sea 

Usurped  his  green  domain  : 
Yet  now  remembering  the  fair  scene 

Where  once  he  reigned  without  endeavor, 
The  great  rock  in  the  ocean  stands 

And  battles  with  the  waves  forever. 

How  oft,  0  rock,  must  visit  thee 

Sweet  visions  of  the  ancient  calm 
All  amorous  with  birds  and  bees, 

And  odorous  with  balm ! 
Ah  me,  the  terrors  of  the  time 

When  the  grim,  wrinkled  sea  advances, 
And  winds  and  waves  with  direful  cries 

Arouse  thee  from  thy  happy  trances  ! 

To  no  soft  tryst  they  waken  thee, 

No  sunny  scene  of  perfect  rest, 
But  to  the  raging  sea's  vanguard 

Thundering  against  thy  breast: 
No  singing  birds  are  round  thee,  now, 

But  the  wild  winds,  the  roaring  surges, 
And  gladly  would  they  hurl  thee  down 

And  mock  thee  in  eternal  dirges. 


12  THE   ROCK   IN  THE  SKA 


But  be  it  thine  to  conquer  them  ; 

And  may  thy  firm-enduring  form 
Still  frown  upon  the  hurricane, 

Still  grandly  front  the  storm  : 
And  while  the  tall  ships  come  and  go, 

And  come  and  go  the  generations, 
May  thy  proud  presence  yet  remain 

A  wonder  unto  all  the  nations. 

Sometime,  perchance,  O  lonely  rock, 

Thou  mayest  regain  thine  ancient  seat, 
Mayest  see  once  more  the  meadow  shine, 

And  hear  the  pasture  bleat : 
But  ah,  methinks  even  then  thy  breast 

Would  stir  and  yearn  with  fond  emotion, 
To  meet  once  more  in  glorious  war 

The  roaring  cohorts  of  the  ocean. 

Let  me,  like  thee,  thou  noble  rock, 

Pluck  honor  from  the  seas  of  time ; 
Where  Providence  doth  place  my  feet 

There  let  me  stand  sublime : 
O  life,  't  is  very  sweet  to  lie 

Upon  thy  shores  without  endeavor, 
But  sweeter  far  to  breast  thy  storms 

And  battle  with  thy  waves  forever. 
The  Century  Magazine,  August,  1883. 


THE  CHIMNEY-NOOK  13 


THE  CHIMNEY -NOOK. 

0,  HOW  much  comfort  is  there  in  the  glow 

Of  a  rosy  fire  in  winter, 

When  each  stem  and  stick  and  splinter 
Burns  all  the  brighter  for  the  winds  that  blow ! 
Then  high  or  low  the  walls,  they  wear  a  joyous  look, 

Nor  is  anything  more  cheery, 

When  the  winter  wind  sounds  dreary, 
Than  sitting  by  the  fire,  within  the  chimney-nook. 

Bring  Redheart  Oak,  the  tyrant  of  the  wood ! 

Were  his  dry  heart  even  dryer, 

It  would  better  suit  our  fire 
While  burning  in  this  high,  ecstatic  mood  : 
Bring  Tall-Pine,  whose  old  head  long  since  the  crows 
forsook : 

Tall-Pine,  he  is  in  his  dotage, 

But  his  head  shall  boil  our  pottage, 
While  we  sit  here  and  laugh  beside  our  chimney -nook. 

Old  Tall-Pine,  you  were  old  when  I  was  young, 
On  your  head  the  rains  had  drifted, 
Through  your  locks  the  snows  had  sifted 

A  hundred  years  ere  my  first  song  was  sung ; 

Your  foot  was  gouty  grown,  your  head  with  palsy  shook, 
But  your  heart  possessed  you  lightly, 
And  you  stood  your  sentry  nightly, 

While  I  sat  here  and  dozed  beside  my  chimney-nook. 


14  THE   CHIMNEY-NOOK 

Do  you  remember,  Tall-Pine,  years  ago, 

When  I  rambled  in  my  childhood 

Through  yon  solitary  wildwood, 
And  climbed  your  high  top  for  the  callow  crow  ? 
Hurrah  for  those  old  days  when  you  and  I  partook 

Snow  and  rain  and  hail  together, 

Little  thinking  this  cold  weather 
Would  bring  us  face  to  face  beside  my  chimney-nook. 

But  now  the  wind  is  louder  than  before ; 

With  a  wild  demoniac  laughter 

He  is  running  down  the  rafter, 
I  will  not  talk  nor  dally  with  you  more : 
For  that  you  were  my  friend,  some  pity  had  me  strook  ; 

But  the  night  is  growing  colder, 

And  my  spirit  waxes  bolder, 
To  have  you  keep  me  warm  beside  my  chimney -nook. 

Then  lay  his  head  down,  crowned  with  all  its  cones  ; 

It  shall  be  a  bed  of  roses 

Where  mine  ancient  friend  reposes ; 
Peace  to  his  ashes,  rest  unto  his  bones  ! 
Now,  bravo,  Tall-Pine,  for  your  aged  pate  ne'er  took, 

Since  the  spring-time  of  your  story, 

Such  a  lustre,  such  a  glory, 
As  this  I  see  it  wear  beside  my  chimney-nook. 

Beneath  this  mansion  is  a  cellar  old, 

"  Where  there  bydeth,"  says  tradition, 
"  A  moste  wondrous  wyse  magician, 

Who  hydeth  hym  in  bottels  grene  with  molde." 


THE  CHIMNEY-NOOK  15 

A  candle's  ray  at  night,  this  fellow  can  not  brook  ; 
We  will  go  into  the  cellar 
With  our  lights  and  blind  the  fellow, 

Then  bring  him  to  his  wits  beside  our  chimney-nook. 

Can  you  believe  me  ?    Shakespeare  knew  him  well ; 

Jonson  loved  him  as  his  brother, 

So  i'  faith  did  many  another 
Most  potent  bard  who  felt  "  hys  mightye  spell": 
Ere  this  magician  come,  hang  potluck  on  the  hook ; 

We  will  never  close  our  lashes 

Till  old  Tall-Pine  burns  to  ashes  ; 
But  laugh  here  all  night  long  beside  our  chimney -nook. 

Then  let  the  jolly,  motley  world  wag  on 

To  an  age  of  baser  metal ; 

So  it  upseta  not  our  kettle, 
Give  thanks  for  this  and  ask  for  fatter  brawn  ; 
We  shall  get  through  our  day,  somehow,  by  hook  or 
crook; 

Be  our  purse  however  slender, 

Only  give  us  fire  and  fender, 
We  shall  not  lack  for  fun  beside  our  chimney-nook. 

O,  how  much  comfort  is  there  in  the  glow 

Of  a  rosy  fire  in  winter, 

When  each  stem  and  stick  and  splinter 
Burns  all  the  brighter  for  the  winds  that  blow. 
Then  high  or  low  the  walls,  they  wear  a  joyous  look  ; 

Nor  is  anything  more  cheery, 

When  the  winter  winds  sound  dreary, 
Than  sitting  by  the  fire  within  our  chimney-nook. 

mili»'  Home  Journal,  May  5, 1860. 


16  THE   LAST  VISITOR 


THE  LAST  VISITOR. 

"  WHO  is  it  knocks  this  stormy  night  ? 
Be  very  careful  of  the  light ! " 
The  good-man  said  to  his  wife, 

And  the  good-wife  went  to  the  door  ; 
But  never  again  in  all  his  life 
Will  the  good-man  see  her  more. 

For  he  who  knocked  that  night  was  Death  ; 
And  the  light  went  out  with  a  little  breath. 
And  the  good-man  will  miss  his  wife, 

Till  he,  too,  goes  to  the  door, 
When  Death  will  carry  him  up  to  Life, 
To  behold  her  face  once  more. 


THE   WAR   OF  THE  DRYADS  17 


THE  WAR  OF  THE  DRYADS. 

SHAPES  of  earth  or  sprites  of  air, 

Should  you  travel  thither, 
Ask  the  Dryads  how  they  dare 

Quarrel  thus  together? 
Live  and  love,  or  coo  and  woo, 

Men  with  axes  banding, 
They  will  have  all  they  can  do 

To  keep  their  live-oak  standing. 

Long  and  loud  the  larum  swells 

Rousing  up  the  peoples ; 
Campaneros  clang  their  bella 

High  in  leafy  steeples. 
Swiftly  speed  the  eager  hours, 

Fairy  fellies  rattle ; 
Bugle-weed  and  trumpet-flowers 

Heralding  the  battle. 

Foremost  march,  in  pale  platoons, 

Barnacles  and  ganzas, 
Quacking  through  the  long  lagoons 

Military  stanzas. 
Red-legged  choughs  and  screeching  daws 

File  along  the  larches ; 
"  Right ! "  and  "  Left ! "  the  raven  caws, 

"  Blast  your  countermarches ! " 


18  THE  WAR  OF  THK  DRYADS 

Cheek  by  jowl  with  stately  rooks 

Comes  the  perking  swallows, 
Putting  on  important  looks, 

Strutting  up  the  hollows ; 
Lank,  long-legged  fuglemen, 

Herons,  cranes,  and  ganders, 
Stride  before  the  buglemen, 

Cock-a-hoop  commanders. 

Learned  owls  with  wondrous  eyes, 

Apes  with  wild  grimaces, 
Shardy  chafers,  chattering  pyes, 

Bustle  in  their  places. 
"  Forward ! "  cry  the  captains  all, 

Seeming  hoarse  with  phthisis  ; 
"  Forward ! "  all  the  captains  call, 

Cocks  aud  cockatrices. 

Fiercely  grapple  now  the  foes, 

Bain  the  bottle-grasses ; 
Hobble-bushes,  bitter  sloes, 

Block  the  mountain  passes. 
Here  and  there  and  everywhere 

Keinforcements  rally, 
Seeming  sprung  from  earth  and  air, 

From  mountain  top  and  valley. 

Either  gleaming  bullets  hum, 

Or  the  bees  are  plying  ; 
Either  whizzing  goes  the  bomb, 

Or  the  pheasant  flying. 


THE   WAR  OF  THE  DRYADS  19 

"Tis  the  pheasant,  'tis  the  bee ; 

Never  fiercer  volley 
Rang  upon  the  birken  tree, 

Nor  whirred  along  the  holly. 

Out  from  furze  and  prickly  goss, 

Fiery  serpents  jetting, 
Over  level  roods  of  moss 

Rabbits  ricochetting ; 
Oh,  the  onset !  Oh,  the  charge ! 

How  the  aspens  quiver  ! 
Fever-bushes  on  the  marge 

Chatter  to  the  river. 

Overhead  by  rod  and  rood, 

More  than  man  could  number, 
Spear-grass  and  arrow-wood 

Turn  the  white  air  sombre. 
Gentle,  gentle  Dryades, 

You  shall  reap  your  sorrow ; 
More  than  rainy  Hyades 

You  shall  weep  to-morrow. 

Crows  the  cock  and  caws  the  crow, 

Croaks  the  boding  raven ; 
Pallid  as  the  moon-beams  go, 

Three  and  three,  the  craven 
Dryads,  and  the  sun  drops  low. 

Soon  shall  come  strange  faces, 
Men  with  axes,  to  and  fro, — 

New  peoples  and  new  races. 

Knickerbocker  Magazine. 


20  YEARNINGS 


YEARNINGS. 

How  charming  it  would  be  if  you  and  I 
Could  shake  off  every  clog  which  Circumstance, 
Our  base  old  dungeon-keeper,  has  hung  round 
The  natural  freedom  of  our  God-made  limbs, 
And  so  go  wandering  about  the  earth 
At  our  own  pleasure,  till  we  chose  to  die ! 
I  half  believe  that  somewhere  in  the  far 
Tumultuous  rush  of  the  earth-wasting  years, 
I  must  have  led  a  heavenly  condor's  life, 
And  so,  full  many  a  time,  from  the  bright  centre 
Of  the  great  dome  that  roofs  the  sea  and  land, 
Have  looked  on  this  revolving  pageantry : 
For  not  a  day  goes  by  but  my  blood  burns 
To  roam  at  will  the  vast  and  glorious  rondure 
Of  this  fine  world ;  to  saunter  up  and  down 
From  end  to  end  of  all  its  gorgeous  valleys, 
Its  rolling  rivers,  its  majestic  hills, 
Its  fiery  deserts,  its  wide  wastes  of  ocean. 
But  it  should  be  with  some  dear  bosom  friend, 
With  whom  I  might  be  talking  half  the  time  ; 
Now  in  high  strain  about  the  unknown  land, 
Now  marveling  to  find  upon  all  things, 
Whether  in  earth  or  air,  upon  the  wave, 
The  tree,  the  rock,  the  sand,  the  blade  of  grass, 
Still  the  great  stamp  of  the  Reliable  ; 


YEARNINGS  21 


And  both  of  us  so  much  at  one  with  Nature, 
We  should  admire  the  very  heat  and  dust, 
The  very  snow  and  hail,  the  wind  and  rain  ; 
Fearing  not  even  the  hungry  howls  of  beasts, 
The  horrible  unreason  of  the  brutes, 
Nor  any  enterprise  of  desperate  men : 
Knowing  full  well  that  he  who  builds  his  life 
On  pain  and  sorrow,  builds  on  adamant ; 
While  from  foundations  deepest  laid  in  earth, 
Must  spring  the  highest  turrets  into  heaven. 


So  then  it  would  be  nothing  but  a  pleasure 
To  toil  and  sweat  along  the  dusty  roads ; 
To  drag  our  weary  limbs  from  cliff  to  cliff; 
To  poise  ourselves  upon  some  hair-breadth  edge, 
And  breathless  creep  above  the  pits  of  danger ; 
For  what  should  all  the  perils  of  the  journey 
Weigh  in  the  balance  with  its  hours  of  joy, 
Its  blissful  commerce  of  two  loving  friends, 
Its  eagle  views  from  every  towering  peak, 
Its  glorious  intercourse  with  the  great  God, 
Who  made  and  lives  in  all. 


O,  I  believe 

Our  fate  will  yet  go  wandering  with  us 
All  over  the  green  earth  in  this  great  wise  ! 
I  only  pray  it  may  be  before  Death, 
That  kind,  well-meaning  chemist,  shall  drain  off 
From  our  dear  souls  our  sweet  infirmities, — 
As  we  presume  he  will,  since  without  them 
How  shall  we  know  what  highest  pleasure  is  ! 


22  YEAKNINGS 

And  yet  why  doubt  that  all  will  not  be  best  ? 
And  why  suppose  that  even  Death  can  bring  us 
Where  toil  and  pain  shall  walk  with  us  no  more? 

0,  certainly,  if  we  should  live  so  long, 

Till  heaven  has  sprinkled  our  good  heads  with  gray, 

Why  not  give  up  this  ignominious  life, 

Surrender  these  pale  comforts  which  our  age 

And  time  now  lavish  most  on  meanest  men, 

Distribute  all  our  goods  among  the  poor, 

And  after,  seek  our  fortunes  through  the  earth  ? 

Our  costume  should  be  suited  to  the  clime, 

And  we  would  carry  in  our  loving  hearts 

The  flowers  of  all  the  creeds,  scarce  knowing  which 

Were  loveliest !    And  all  our  walk  by  day 

Should  be  in  ever-changing  atmospheres 

Of  speech  and  silence ;  while  as  night  came  down, 

And  the  good  stars  drew  near  us,  and  unveiled 

To  tell  us  we  might  sleep  since  they  would  watch, 

Then  seeking  out  the  best  place  we  could  find, 

Our  bodies  unto  cold  insensible, 

And  unto  fear  our  souls,  we  should  lie  down, 

And  the  soft  petals  of  our  eyes  would  close, 

And  all  the  heavens  would  watch  us  while  we  slept 


THE  OLD   YEAR  23 


THE    OLD   YEAR. 

ALAS  !  alas !  the  Old  Year  lies  dead  ! 

And  I  am  the  Wind,  the  harper  hoary, 
That  chanted  his  requiem  over  his  head, 

And  told  to  the  hills  his  sorrowful  story. 
Everything  comes  at  last  to  an  end ; 

But  to  die  on  the  moor,  without  pillow  or  litter, 
The  desolate  moor,  with  never  a  friend, 

Not  one —  my  God  !  it  is  bitter!  bitter! 

Dead !  dead !    So  !  so !    All  over  at  last ! 

And  he  died  of  old  age  as  he  said  he  should  die, 
With  the  poor  old  harper  alone  to  cast 

One  glance  on  the  spot  where  his  ashes  lie. 
I  leant  me  down  by  his  shadowy  form, 

And  raised  up  his  shaggy  and  grizzled  head, 
And  felt  if  his  grand  old  heart  was  warm  ; 

But  alas  for  my  friend,  he  was  dead  !  he  was  dead ! 

Oh,  pity,  pity  !    I  am  so  blind, 

So  old  and  blind,  that  I  scarcely  know 
What  house  this  is,  nor  am  able  to  find 

A  bit  of  a  pathway  here  in  the  snow. 
So  blind,  that  although  I  anxiously  peer 

Full  high  and  low  through  the  shadows  of  night, 
I  can  only  just  guess  from  the  things  that  I  hear, 

Which  of  your  windows  is  alight. 


24  THE   OLD   YEAR 

It  is  easy  to  see,  it  is  easy  to  see 

You  do  not  love  an  old  man  like  me  ; 
It  matters  but  little  whom  he  implores, 

On  the  poor  old  harper  they  shut  their  doors. 
But  I  will  not  call  you  unkind  in  there, 

For  I  know  I  am  crabbed  and  old  and  wheezy ; 
And  I  carry  in  with  me  too  much  cold  air, 

My  cloak  is  so  large  and  my  cape  is  so  breezy. 

I  know  not  whether  you  loved  the  Old  Year, 

But  I  know  a  poor  harper  who  loved  him  more 
Than  even  his  own  sweet  harp,  I  fear, 

Which  he  strikes  in  vain  at  your  openless  door. 
With  the  snow  so  white  for  his  glistening  shroud, 

And  the  night  so  black  for  his  funeral  pall, 
Ah  me,  that  sorrow  should  not  be  loud ; 

Ah  me,  that  sorrow  is  not  for  all ! 

How  well  I  remember  the  good  Old  Year, 

When  he  sat  in  his  childhood  under  the  pines, 
This  beautiful,  antique  harp  to  hear, 

As  I  grandly  chanted  mine  ancient  lines. 
For  though  I  say  it,  this  harp,  I  say, 

Has  more  weird  music  about  the  strings 
Than  all  the  new-fangled  things  they  play  — 

In  convent  halls  or  the  courts  of  kings. 

Your  pardon,  good  folk,  for  I  never  came  here 
To  chant  my  own  praise ;  but  I  came  to  lament 

The  loss  of  my  friend  whom  I  held  so  dear, 

And  who  carried  my  heart  with  him  where  he  went. 


THE  OLD  YEAR  25 

Alas  !  alas !  my  old  friend  lies  dead  ! 

And  I  am  the  Wind,  the  harper  hoary, 
That  chanted  his  requiem  over  his  head, 

And  told  to  the  hills  his  sorrowful  story ! 

Gone !  gone !  forever  and  ever  gone ! 

Would  that  I,  too,  might  come  to  my  rest ! 
But  I  can  not  die  —  I  must  ever  go  on, 

Weary  and  wildered,  a  thing  unblest. 
Hark  !  hear  you  not  the  voice  of  the  sea, 

Now  shrill  and  loud,  now  soft  and  low  ? 
It  is  calling  to  me!    It  is  calling  to  me ! 

It  says  I  must  go  ;  it  says  I  must  go. 

The  Independent. 


26  THE  TWO   ENCHANTMENTS 


THE  TWO  ENCHANTMENTS. 

O,  HEAR  from  yonder  height 
That  glorious  trumpet  sounding ! 
How  fierce  my  pulses  beat ! 
But  in  the  valley  bright 
The  rebecs  are  resounding : 
How  sweet,  how  magic  sweet ! 
Ah,  whither  shall  I  go  ? 

See  now  upon  the  height 

Those  mighty  shapes  advancing, 

So  radiant,  yet  so  far ! 

But  in  the  valley  bright 

The  youths  and  maidens  dancing, 

How  beautiful  they  are ! 

O,  whither  shall  I  go  ? 

How  grand  about  the  height 
Fame's  noble  army  winding 
To  pinnacles  above ! 
But  in  the  valley  bright, 
Her  hair  with  roses  binding, 
Lingers  the  maid  I  love : 
Ah,  whither  shall  I  go? 

The  Century  Magazine,  January,  1883. 


FANTA8IK  27 


FANTASIE. 

I  HAD  come  from  the  distant  land  of  Blee, 
To  the  magical  realm  of  Fantasie. 
Brightest  of  kingdoms  under  the  sun, 
Fairer  than  empires  of  lilies  and  roses ; 
Wilder  than  half  which  the  Dreams  have  done 
For  the  wonderful  land  where  Sleep  reposes  ; 
The  loveliest  region  of  all  that  be 
Is  the  magical  realm  of  Fantasie. 


All  on  the  borders  grow  those  flowers, 

Those  crazy  and — Oh,  those  crazy  flowers, 

Most  known  to  immemorial  story  ; 

While  down  from  above  in  all  their  glory, 

Down  from  above  dear  Fantasie, 

With  a  white  and  filent  masonry, 

Gloom  and  glimmer  the  moonshine  towers  ; 

And  over  those  towers  impalpable 

The  Whimsies  flit,  when  the  moon  is  full. 


The  slender  Caprices,  too,  dwell  here  together 

In  the  midst  of  a  very  uncertain  weather, 

Where  it  rains  and  it  shines  every  hour  of  the  day  ; 

And  some  look  so  pensive  and  some  look  so  gay, 

And  they  smile  or  they  frown,  alway. 


28 


Fickle  as  wind  they  be, — 

But  over  them  with  a  wand  rules  he, 

The  jolly  Monarch  of  Fantasie. 

Once,  I  remember,  in  midsummer  heats, 

I  saw  the  half-naked,  dainty  Conceits, 

Trooping  along  like  troops  of  Kisses, 

Over  and  over  those  wildernesses 

Of  clambering  and  depending  sweets, 

Where  the  Ivy  and  Vine  with  each  other  vie 

To  be  the  coquette  of  the  forestry ; 

And  some  on  the  cups  of  the  flowers  alit, — 

But  they  perked  at  the  odors  and  spilled  their  wine  ; 

And  some  on  the  banks  of  a  stream  did  sit 

Complaining  of  all  which  they  saw  in  it ; 

While  some  fashioned  lutes  of  the  vine, 

And  tunefully  made  repine. 


Apart  from  the  rest  a  heedless  throng 

Wandered  there,  empty  of  even  a  song, 

Round  an  amphora's  wealth  of  golden  creams, 

Like  travelers  in  a  land  of  dreams  ; 

And  some  low  sighed  while  they  hardly  ate 

Tidbits  of  the  rarest  cate  ; 

Others  there  were,  but  they  stayed  in  the  air, 

Not  deigning  to  alight  down  there ; 

An  azure  areole  starred  their  bellies, 

For  they  fed  on  the  hues  of  jellies. 

Fickle  as  wind  they  be, — 

Yet  over  them  with  a  wand  rules  he, 

The  jolly  Monarch  of  Fantasie. 


FANTASIE  29 

Nothing  comes  here  but  it  comes  by  surprise 

To  quicken  your  ears,  or  to  greaten  your  eyes ; 

And  nothing  you  hear  and  naught  you  see 

But  is  wrought  by  an  alchemy. 

Here  an  extravagant  beam  of  the  sun 

Will  turn  the  leaves  into  birds,  every  one ; 

And  O,  such  a  forest  of  chirping  and  chirring, 

Peeping  and  cheeping,  who  ever  heard ! 

When  suddenly,  some  little  breeze  up-stirring, 

Lo  and  behold,  each  beautiful  bird 

Is  a  musical  bell :  and  the  silvery  tinkling 

Startles  the  ouphe  and  the  elfin  fay, 

Till  they  scamper,    like    mad,  down    the    intervale, 

sprinkling 

Old  thefte  of  roses  all  over  the  way  ; 
Then  the  mermen  come  out  from  their  deep  mossy 

wells, 

Bespangled  with  dews  and  dripping  with  foam, 
And  lock  up  the  music  in  rosy-lipped  shells, 
And  hie  them  away  to  their  sea-forest  home. 

Such  are  the  sounds  that  you  oftenest  hear 
When  the  days  are  calm  and  the  nights  are  clear ; 
And  such  are  the  sights  that  you  oftenest  see 
In  the  magical  realm  of  Fantasie ; 
And  if  ever  a  country  prosper  me, 
May  Fantasie  that  dear  country  be. 

Knickerbocker  Mag<\sinc. 


30  THE   MASQUE  IN   FANTASIE 


THE  MASQUE  IN  FANTASIE. 

ONCE  I  went  curtsying  through  and  through 

The  magical  realm  of  Fantasie, 

Steeped  in  the  self-same  reverie 

As  the  poets  I  met  and  curtsied  to ; 

For  ever  they  walked  there  dreamily, 

Uplifting  their  eyes  to  those  mystical  skies, 

While  they  lowly  whispered  to  one  another 

How  the  king  of  the  realm  would  shortly  arise 

To  make  some  or  other  preposterous  pother, 

But  they  knew  not  as  yet  what  the  pother  would  be, 

In  the  magical  realm  of  Fantasie. 


Had  it  not  been  to  see  those  beautiful  bards, 

I  should  never  have  started  down  Fantasie-wards ; 

For  a  marvelous  glamour  in  the  air 

Parodies  things  from  what  they  were; 

And  a  guilty  man  who  could  make  his  boast 

That  he  saw  those  pallid,  unearthly  faces, 

Unnatural  eyes  and  horrid  grimaces, 

And  still  kept  his  right  mind  uppermost, 

That  man  would  be  as  brave  as  a  lion, 

With  nerves  of  steel  and  a  heart  of  iron. 

Had  it  not  been  to  see  those  beautiful  barde, 

I  should  never  have  started  down  Fantasie-wards. 


THE   MASQUE   IN    FANTA8IK  31 

Have  you  ever  awaked  from  silent  sleep 

To  a  sounding  serenade  under  the  moon, 

When  viol  and  flute  perfect  harmony  keep, 

And  the  gentle  guitars  eke  out  the  tune  ? 

Of  the  many  sweet  things  I  have  heard  elsewhere, 

There  is  nothing  other  can  hold  compare 

With  the  wild,  the  ethereal  burst,  which  pealed 

All  of  a  sudden  on  Fantasie  : 

So  startling  those  beautiful  bards  and  me 

With  its  wondrous  melody  that  we  reeled, — 

Reeled  to  and  fro,  as  much  I  dare  say, 

As  those  fountains  do  that  are  drunk  all  day, 

While  showered  around  us  the  musical  spray. 


But  now  we  were  hurling  our  loud  acclaim 

High  up,  where  onward  and  onward  came, 

Borne  on  the  swift  white  wings  of  a  million 

Carrier-breezes,  the  Royal  Pavilion. 

All  round  on  ite  sides  were  elfin  bowers, 

And  grottoes,  and  sweet  sequestered  places, 

All  fairly  roofed  with  flaunting  flowers, 

And  trailers  of  ivy  pleached  into  laces  : 

There  was  the  shining  Naiad's  home, 

Fleckered  with  flakes  of  the  fountain-foam  ; 

The  Dryad's  green  tree  and  the  Sylph's  couch  of  air, 

And  the  Oread's  mountain,  all  were  there. 

You  saw  no  goer,  you  saw  no  comer, 

Only  the  lingering  spell  of  dreams; 

Over  all  hung  the  spell  of  sooth y  summer, 

And  amorous  silence  and  shady  gleams. 


32  THE   MASQUE  IN   FANTASIE 

The  monarch  sat  on  his  throne, 

Stern  as  the  marble  and  cold  as  the  stone ; 

Full  strange  then  it  seemed  when  he  lifted  his  wand, 

And  sweetly  and  merrily  gave  his  command, — 

"  To  the  masque !  to  the  masque ! " 

Then  fleetly  out, 

Bolted  a  merry,  mad,  rollicking  rout 
Of  all  the  pet  sprites  which  Fancy  fair 
Hath  begot  on  the  earth,  in  the  sea  or  the  air : 
Faun  follows  Fairy  and  Fairy  Faun, 
And  Sylphid  the  heels  of  the  Satyr  on  ; 
The  Men  of  the  Seas  and  the  Maids  of  the  Seas 
Run  chasing  the  Dryads  out  of  their  trees, 
And  they  skip  and  they  gambol  and  airily  fly, 
And  frisk  and  frolic  so  high, 

They  seem  as  if  poised  'twixt  the  earth  and  the  sky : 
And  the  Elves  and  the  Naiads  trip  it  along, 
Footing  the  turf  and  singing  a  song ; 
Some  lead  a  morris  across  the  pavilion, 
Some  weave  the  maze  of  the  gentle  cotillion, 
Some  tread  a  round  and  some  tread  a  measure, 
And  marry  their  hands  for  the  pleasure ; 
The  glorious  sunbeams,  the  while,  are  netting 
Checkers  of  silver  and  gold  and  green, 
The  tall  spumy  fountains  are  laughingly  jetting, 
The  dancers  are  jocundly  dancing  between  ; 
And  when  the  sport  thickened,  I  would  you  had  seen 
Their  fair  rosy  cheeks  and  their  glistening  eyes, 
Taper  arms  and  streamers  of  sea-green  hair, 
And  the  opaline  jetteaus  that  mocked  the  skies, 
And  the  arches  of  Iris  that  drove  through  the  air. 


THE  MASQUE  IN    KANTAS1K  33 

The  monarch  eat  on  his  throne, 

Calm  as  the  marble  and  still  as  the  stone ; 

Full  strange  then  it  seemed  when  he  lifted  his  wand, 

And  loudly  and  sternly  gave  out  his  command, — 

"Unmasqe!  unmasque!" 

Down  rustled  the  night, 
And  closed  like  a  pall  on  the  dying  light ; 
Yet  no  sooner  had  darkness  out-blotted  the  day, 
Than  a  million  blue  lights  took  the  darkness  away ; 
And  we  saw  by  the  blaze  that  Satyr  and  Faun 
And  Merman  and  Mermaid  all  were  gone : 
But  heavenly  Jeeu !  what  new  shapes  are  there, 
Where  the  blue-flaming  sockets  flash  and  flare  ? 
Snaky-haired  Furies,  and  Witches  on  brooms, 
Warlocks  indued  from  the  Devil's  own  looms, 
And  all  the  curst  litter  of  churchyards  and  tombs, — 
Bogles  and  Lemures,  Spectres  and  Ghouls, 
That  vex  men's  bodies  and  haunt  men's  souls : — 
And  a  guilty  man  who  could  make  his  boast 
That  he  saw  those  pallid,  unearthly  faces, 
Unnatural  eyes  and  horrid  grimaces, 
And  still  kept  his  right  mind  uppermost, — 
That  man  would  be  as  brave  as  a  lion, 
With  nerves  of  steel  and  a  heart  of  iron. 
Had  it  not  been  to  see  those  beautiful  bards, 
I  should  never  have  journeyed  down  Fantasie- wards. 

Knickerbocker  Magazine.  1860. 


34  THE  GRAND  ORCHESTRA 


THE  GRAND   ORCHESTRA. 

O,  LISTEN  to  that  solemn  symphony ! 

These  are  the  notes  which  to  the  heart  interpret 

The  majesty  of  sorrow ;  and  it  is 

By  these  the  heavy  progress  of  the  dead, 

The  dead  who  died  immortal,  should  be  followed. 

And  this  should  be  upon  an  afternoon 
In  rich  October ;  and  the  grand  cortege 
Move  down  a  mellow  vista,  where  there  hung 
Floating  aloft,  as  if  upon  the  air, 
And  far  as  eye  could  see,  most  gorgeous  boughs 
Of  leaves  :  and  leaves  should  lie  upon  the  ground 
Quite  thickly ;  and  it  would  be  strange,  indeed, 
If  here  and  there,  all  trembling  to  the  strains 
Of  this  great  score,  still  others  did  not  fall, 
Slow  sailing  their  first  journey  to  the  earth ; 
And  strange  if  now  and  then  might  not  be  seen 
Some  happy  squirrel  or  wee  thoughtless  bird, 
Scarce  knowing  any  sorrow,  even  in  death. 
For  it  should  be  the  month  of  yellow  leaves, 
And  faint  voluptuous  odors  in  the  grass 
And  in  the  golden  haze ;  the  only  time 
When  to  be  happy  is  but  to  be  sad, 
And  to  be  sad  is  to  be  like  the  leaves 
When  all  the  woods  wear  melancholy  plumes. 


THE    GRAND  ORCHESTRA  35 

Too  early  or  too  late  the  poet  dies 

Who  dies  not  in  the  season  of  ripe  leaves. 

O,  list  the  yearning  of  these  cadences, 

For  they  but  breathe  again  what  I  now  said ! 

I  wonder  if  beyond  the  ancient  stars, 

Beyond  this  immaterial  dome,  this  blue 

Eternity  of  silence  overarched, 

Beneath  the  mighty  rushing  of  the  waves, 

A  hundred  foamy  leagues  from  any  man, 

Within  those  palaces  where  all  for  beauty 

Mermaidens  live,  and  mermen  die  for  love, 

Such  melody  is  not  heard  ! 

Soft!  Soft!  Oh,  hark! 

Do  you  not  hear  them  now  ?    Do  you  not  hear 
The  music  of  those  deep  sea-corridors, 
Whose  crystal  pillars  tremble  with  all-hail 
To  the  majestic  entrance  of  the  gray, 
Surf-bearded  Ocean  ?    These  must  be,  indeed, 
Almost  as  beautiful  as  were  the  strains 
Which  followed  in  the  dim  background  of  Time, 
Upon  the  windy  track  of  ^Eolus, 
When  mermaids  have  besought  the  mariner. 
And  those  to  hear  again,  who  would  not  go 
Seafaring  now  ?  Who  would  not  brave  black  night, 
The  creeping,  treacherous  fog,  the  roaring  breakers, 
The  craze'd  winds,  the  insatiable  fire, 
The  unlashed  waves  that  spring  upon  the  deck* 
As  swift  as  tigers,  and  remorselessly 
Sinner  and  saint  alike  sweep  —  God  knows  where  ? 
Only  to  hear  such  ravishing  notes  once  more, 
How  gladly  would  we  sail  the  infested  seas, 
Above  the  dull-eyed  monsters  !    O,  how  quickly 


36  THE    GRAND   ORCHESTRA 

Welcome  the  rushing  and  tumultuous  bergs, 
The  thundering,  league-long  battlements  of  ice, 
Which  were  the  outposts  of  the  Arctic  night. 

But  listen,  now  !    Is  it  not  passing  strange 

These  seeming  ordinary  whiskered  men, 

Who  look  no  more  than  common  entities, 

Are  really  purveyors  to  the  stars, 

And  lug  us  by  the  ears  up  into  Heaven  ? 

How  worse  than  useless,  now,  are  our  good  eyes ! 

I  would  not  open  them  if  I  might  see 

The  unimagined  form  of  Beauty  rise. 

How  softly  unto  dulcet  sounds  like  these, 

The  current  of  our  lives  should  glide  away 

Into  an  old  age  of  sweet  memories. 

Now  is  the  time  to  die  and  feel  no  pang, 

The  dreadful  potion  would  be  so  disguised 

In  the  bright  sparkle  of  sweet  music's  wine. 

Who  knows  not  that  beyond  the  amber  air 
The  voice  of  music  never  will  be  hushed, 
And  silence  would  be  sorrow  ?    O,  believe 
When  we  have  laid  this  mortal  burden  down, 
Which  gives  us  gravity,  and  the  green  earth 
Spins  off  beneath  us,  we  shall  rise  at  once 
Where  spring  immortal  thunders,  and  where  roll 
Great  globes  of  most  celestial  harmonies. 
The  Independent. 


BIOHS  IN  THE  SOUTH  37 


SIGHS  IN  THE  SOUTH. 

O,  FAR  away  the  winds  delay, 
On  purple  hills  the  soft  airs  play 
Which  you  and  I  would  breathe  to-day ; 
And  the  waters  we  would  quaff 
Have  a  wild  and  mountain  laugh  ; 
Through  the  meadows,  through  the  fallows, 
Past  the  willows,  past  the  sallows, 
Breaks  the  brook  to  shoals  and  shallows, 
In  New  England  far  away, 
Where  my  heart  has  gone  to-day. 

The  sun  is  rolled  on  wheels  of  gold 
By  hazy  summits  gray  and  old, 
Where  all  about  from  fold  to  fold, 

Like  barges  of  an  Eastern  prince, 

The  clouds  ride  in  magnificence  ; 
Yet  not  so  much  of  regal  splendor 
Can  the  East  its  princes  render, 
As  the  heaven  and  earth  engender 

In  New  England  far  away, 

At  sunset  every  autumn  day. 

O'er  painted  roods  of  autumn  woods 
The  twilight,  soft  as  amber,  broods 
I'  the  dreamiest  of  its  dreamy  moods. 
The  mill-wheels  in  the  distance  sound, 
The  mill-wheels  going  round  and  round ; 


205490 


38  SIGHS   IN   THK  SOUTH 

Tiny  sheep-bells  tinkle,  tinkle  ; 
Yellow  leaves  and  red  leaves  sprinkle, 
Through  the  leaves  the  waters  twinkle, 

In  New  England  far  away, 

Where  my  fancy  flies  to-day. 

From  hill  to  hill,  how  clear  and  shrill 
The  cow-boy's  calls  reecho  still : 
How  quickly  now  the  air  doth  fill 

With  clamor  of  the  home-bound  herds, 

The  cow-bell's  tones,  the  cow-boy's  words, 
Jingle,  jingle,  jingle,  jingle, 
In  the  copse  and  in  the  dingle ; 
Strange  how  many  sounds  commingle 

In  New  England  far  away, 

At  sunset  on  an  autumn  day. 

Toward  stream  and  lake,  through  bush  and  brake, 
The  thirsty  kine  their  courses  take  ; 
Nor  do  they  less  a  clamor  make 

To  see  in  every  stream  their  looks, 

And  hear  the  songs  o'  the  singing  brooks. 
Ah,  how  pleasant  sounds  the  lowing 
Of  the  cattle  homeward  going, 
And  the  noise  of  waters  flowing 

In  New  England  far  away, 

At  sunset  on  an  autumn  day. 

All  overhead  the  leaves  are  dead  — 
The  brown,  the  russet  leaves  and  red  ; 
But  how  more  fully,  richly  fed 
The  eye  is  with  their  beauty  now 
Than  when  they  greened  the  summer  bough 


8IGH8  IN  THE  SOUTH  39 

Air-hung  gardens,  radiant,  splendid, 
O'er  some  fairy's  home  suspended, 
Show  not  hues  more  sweetly  blended  : 

Nowhere  woodlands  half  so  gay 

As  these  are  on  an  autumn  day. 

The  lights  that  lie  athwart  the  sky, 
White,  golden,  crimson,  far  and  nigh, 
Gleam  through  the  windowed  forestry  ; 

Less  rich  and  soft  the  light  that  falls 

From  stained  panes  on  frescoed  walls. 
Standing  'neath  each  leafy  column, 
Hear  we  not  a  grand  and  solemn 
Anthem  of  majestic  volume, 

Chanted  by  that  blind  and  gray 

Old  organist,  the  Wind,  alway  ? 

Each  woodland  scene,  ah,  how  serene ! 

The  boughs  upon  the  trees,  I  ween, 

Like  arches  upon  pillars  lean. 
How  wondrously  these  pendent  piles 
Look  down  upon  the  forest-aisles ! 

Never  architect  nor  moulder 

Hath  conceived  or  planned  a  bolder, 

Fairer  temple,  nor  an  older ; 
And  my  heart  has  gone  away 
To  worship  in  those  woods  to-day. 
New  York  Weekly  Tribune,  October  13, 1862. 


40  THORKAU 


THOREAU. 


IN   MKMORIAM. 


IP  I  could  find  that  little  poem 
"With  the  daintiest  sort  of  proem, 
Which  the  poet  squirrel  made 
On  a  leaf  that  would  not  fade, 
And  slyly  hid  one  darksome  night 
By  the  wicked  glow-worm's  light !  — 
It  was  all  about  Thoreau  ; 
How  the  squirrels  loved  him  so, 
Since  whenever  he  went  walking, 
He  would  stop  to  hear  their  talking, 
Often  smiling  when  they  chattered, 
Or  their  brown  nuts  downward  pattered. 

Nay,  could  I  but  find  that  bird 
Who  told  me  once  that  she  had  heard 
Robins,  wrens,  and  others  tell, 
How  he  knew  their  language  well, 
And  how  he  turned,  a  thousand  times, 
Birdie  into  English  rhymes! 


THORBAU  41 

In  his  native  Walden  wood 
He  was  our  good  Robin  Hood ; 
Had  he  not  full  many  an  arrow 
Piercing  to  the  very  marrow, — 
Satire,  wit,  philosophy, 
And  all  the  sciences  that  be  ? 
He  was  skilled  in  every  herb 
Wherewith  to  temper  well  the  barb  ; 
And  not  a  bird  upon  the  heather 
But  had  gladly  lent  his  feather. 
Then  woe  the  "proude  sheryfe,"  alas, 
If  he  in  his  way  chanced  to  pass  ; 
And  woe,  alas,  the  "  proude  potter" 
Should  he  drive  near  Walden  water. 


In  New  England,  scarce  a  spot 
Where  his  merry  men  were  not ; 
They  loved  no  better  sound  to  hear, 
Than  when  his  bugle-horn  rang  clear 
On  "  dale  and  downe,"  or  "  hilled  hee," 
"All  under  the  gude  greenwood  tree." 
I  heard  it  once  on  Marl  borough  road, 
Where  oft  at  morning-tide  he  wode. 


Sometimes  I  seem  to  see  him  stand 
Between  the  rainbow  and  the  land, 
Surveying  with  his  tranquil  eye 
The  varied  scenes  which  pass  him  by : 
Anon,  at  autumn's  highest  noon, 
Careering  with  the  harvest-moon ; 


42  THOBEAU 

And  when  the  Old  Year,  sick  to  death, 

Scantly  draws  his  frosty  breath, 

I  see  him  wasted  thin  as  air, 

Keeping  his  lone  vigil  there ; 

But  0,  when  early  grass  doth  spring, 

And  fresh  buds  burst  and  green  woods  ring, 

Grant  me  his  eyes  that  I  may  see 

All  the  beauty  that  shall  be. 

He  could  give  the  blessed  reasons 

Why  the  flowers  came  in  their  seasons ; 

Nay,  he  kenned  the  pedigree 

0'  the  red  rose  and  the  white  lily. 

"  Run,"  he  said,  "  and  you  shall  find 

Just  the  stalk  to  suit  your  mind  ! 

Yet  another  day  and  half 

Go  you  where  the  brooklets  laugh, 

And  seek  the  other  in  high  grass, — 

But  do  not  crush  it  as  you  pass  ! 

Ah,  but  stop,  if  you  should  see, 

Under  some  old  rock  or  tree, 

A  purple,  wee  thing,  most  like  this 

I'  the  book  here — bring  it  —  do  not  miss, 

For  this  same  flower,  before  to-morrow, 

You  can  neither  beg  nor  borrow." 

Have  I  not  beheld  where  stood 
Between  the  water  and  the  wood, 
That  famous  cot,  which  he,  the  cotter, 
Reared,  one  day,  near  Walden  water  ? 
Have  I  not  beheld  that  boat 
Which  bore  the  noble  seer  afloat  ? 


THOREAU  43 

A  common  bark  before  he  entered, 
An  argosy  when  him  it  ventured  ? 
And  now  if  out  of  Death's  grim  portal 
Part  of  us  doth  step  immortal, 
Then  why  may  not  our  blessed  cotter 
Still  revisit  Walden  water, 
And  still  conduct  that  wondrous  boat 
Which  bore  the  gentle  seer  afloat  ? 


44  THE   INVISIBLE  PIPEB 


THE  INVISIBLE  PIPER. 

HARK  !  the  invisible  piper  plays ! 

You  will  scarcely  go  home,  I  think,  to-night, 
For  your  horse  will  cast  his  shoes  in  the  ways, 

And  you  will  follow  a  fire-fly  light. 
O,  he  is  the  piper  that  never  was  seen 
Any  two  days  or  nights  between  ; 
But  plenty  there  be  who  declare  he  looks 
Like  the  figure  of  Punch  in  the  picture-books, 
Or  a  wide-mouthed,  red -nosed,  rollicking  clown, 
With  his  face  all  laughter  from  chin  to  crown. 

Puffing  his  cheeks  and  piping  like  mad, 

He  will  march  through  autumn,  the  motley  fellow, 
And  the  leaves  can  not  see  him,  though  ever  so  glad, 

But  they  all  will  follow  him,  red  and  yellow. 
Not  a  farmer  but  misses  his  oaten  straws 

And  calls  on  the  piper,  aloud,  to  stay ; 
But  he  scarcely  will  get  the  words  out  of  his  jaws 

Ere  the  piper  is  up  and  off  and  away. 

When  the  winter  is  come,  and  the  nights  grow  late, 
And  the  old  crone  leans  at  the  kitchen  grate, 
In  solemn  wise,  and  mumbles  her  stories 
Till  the  urchins  make  big  eyes ;  then  glories 


THI  INVISIBLE  PIPER  45 

The  piper  to  blow  and  to  blow,  and  his  tone 
Those  urchins  think  is  the  desolate  moan 
Of  the  wounded  knight  in  the  legend  old, 
Which  the  skinny  old  crone  has  just  now  told ; 
And  but  half  they  believed  her  marvelous  tale 
Till  the  piper  sounded  his  notes  of  bale  ; 
And  it  is  very  queer  how  the  piper  and  she 
Will  cheat  little  children  two  times  out  of  three. 

He  comes  up  at  night  from  the  dreary  wold 
And  plays  round  the  chimneys  and  gables  old, 
And  flits  in  and  out  through  the  haunted  hall 
Till  the  family  portraits  dance  on  the  wall. 
But  most  he  loves  in  midsummer  eves 
To  answer  her  plaint  when  Echo  grieves ; 
Or  chance  on  lovers  who  kiss  and  play 
In  the  shade  of  an  arbor  hid  away. 

No  better  piper  e'er  piped  on  a  straw 

To  the  king  of  the  forest,  the  bold  outlaw ; 

And  no  better  piper  e'er  piped  on  a  reed 

To  the  elves  and  the  fairies  that  skip  o'er  the  mead  ; 

And  no  better  piper  e'er  piped  on  a  quill 

To  the  shepherds  that  dance  'neath  th  e  loud-bleating  hill. 

0,  he  is  the  piper  for  all  and  for  all ; 

For  he  pipes  to  Maggie  and  he  pipes  to  Mall, 

He  pipes  for  the  cottage  and  he  pipes  for  the  hall ; 

He  pipes  for  merry  and  he  pipes  for  sad, 

He  pipes  for  sorry  and  he  pipes  for  glad, 

And  be  you  a  mistress,  or  be  you  a  lover, 

Sour  be  the  sorrel,  or  sweet  be  the  clover, 

There  is  no  better  music  the  wide  world  over. 


46  SHAKESPEARE 


SHAKESPEARE. 

I  WISH  that  I  could  have  my  wish  to-night ; 
For  all  the  fairies  should  assist  my  flight 

Back  into  the  abyss  of  years  ; 
Till  I  could  see  the  streaming  light, 

And  hear  the  music  of  the  spheres 
That  sang  together  at  the  joyous  birth 

Of  that  immortal  mind, 

The  noblest  of  his  kind  — 
The  only  Shakespeare  that  has  graced  our  earth. 

0,  that  I  might  behold 
Those  gentle  sprites,  by  others  all  unseen, 

Queen  Mab  and  Puck  the  bold, 

With  curtseys  manifold 
Glide  round  his  cradle  every  morn  and  e'en  ; 

That  I  might  see  the  nimble  shapes  that  ran 

And  frisked  and  frolicked  by  his  side, 
When  school  hours  ended  or  began, 

At  morn  or  eventide ; 
That  I  might  see  the  very  shoes  he  wore 

Upon  the  dusty  street, 
His  little  gown  and  pinafore, 

His  satchel  and  hia  schoolboy  rig  complete ! 


SHAKESPEARE  47 

If  I  could  have  the  wish  I  rhyme, 
Then  should  this  night,  and  all  it  doth  contain, 

Be  set  far  back  upon  the  rim  of  Time, 
And  I  would  wildered  be  upon  a  stormy  plain : 
The  wanton  waves  of  winter  wind  and  storm 

Should  beat  upon  my  ruddy  face, 
And  on  my  streaming  hair  ; 
And  hags  and  witches  multiform, 

And  beldames  past  all  saintly  grace, 
Should  hover  round  me  in  the  sleety  air. 

Then  hungry,  cold,  and  frightened  by  these  imps  of  sin, 

And  breathless  all  with  buffeting  the  storm, 
Betimes  I  would  arrive  at  some  old  English  inn, 

Wainscoted,  high,  and  warm. 
The  fire  should  blaze  in  antique  chimney-place  ; 
And  on  the  high-backed  settles,  here  and  there, 
The  village  gossip  and  the  merry  laugh 
Should  follow  brimming  cups  of  half-an'-half ; 
Before  the  fire,  in  hospitable  chair, 

The  landlord  fat  should  bask  his  shining  face, 
And  slowly  twirl  his  pewter  can ; 

And  there  in  his  consummate  grace, 
The  perfect  lord  of  wit, 
The  immortal  man, 
The  only  Shakespeare  of  this  earth  should  sit. 

There,  too,  that  Spanish  galleon  of  a  hulk, 

Ben  Jonson,  lying  at  full  length, 
Should  so  dispose  his  goodly  bulk 
That  he  might  lie  at  ease  upon  his  back, 

To  test  the  tone  and  strength 
Of  Boniface's  sherris-sack. 


48  SHAKESPEARE 

And  there  should  be  some  compeers  of  these  two, 

Bare  wits  and  poets  of  the  land, 
Whom  all  good  England  knew, 
And  who  are  now  her  dear  forget-me-nots ; 

And  they  should  lounge  on  Shakespeare's  either  hand, 
And  sip  their  punch  from  queer  old  cans  and  pots. 

O,  then,  such  drollery  should  begin, 

Such  wit  flash  out,  such  humor  run 
Around  the  fire  in  this  old  English  inn, 

The  veriest  clod  would  be  convulsed  with  fun ; 
And  Boniface's  merry  sides  would  ache, 
And  his  round  belly  like  a  pudding  shake. 

Never  since  the  world  began 

Has  been  such  repartee ; 
And  never  till  the  next  begins, 
Will  greater  things  be  said  by  man, 

Than  this  same  company 
Were  wont  to  say  so  oft  in  those  old  English  inns. 

Dear  artist  if  you  paint  this  picture  mine, 

Do  not  forget  the  storm  that  roars 

Above  the  merry  din  and  laughter  within  doors ; 
But  let  some  stroke  divine 
Make  all  within  appear  more  rich  and  warm, 
By  contrast  with  the  outer  storm. 

New  York  Tribune. 


AT  THE  GRAVE  49 


AT  THE  GRAVE. 

IN   MEMORY   OP  A.  M. 

IT  is  a  world  of  seeming : 

The  changeless  moon  seems  changing  ever, 

The  sun  sets  daily,  but  sets  never ; 

So  near  the  stars  and  yet  so  far ; 

So  small  they  seem,  so  large  they  are ! 

It  is  a  world  of  seeming. 

And  so  it  seems  that  she  is  dead ; 
Yet  so  seems  only ;  for,  instead, 
Her  life  is  just  begun ;  and  this  — 
Is  but  an  empty  chrysalis ; 
While  she,  unseen  to  mortal  eyes, 
Now  wins  her  way  in  brighter  skies  — 
Beyond  this  world  of  seeming. 

The  Century  Magazine,  February,  1887. 


50  PRO  MORTUIS 


PRO  MORTUIS 

FOR  the  dead  and  for  the  dying ; 

For  the  dead  that  once  were  living, 
And  the  living  that  are  dying, 

Pray  I  to  the  All-forgiving. 

For  the  dead  who  yester  journeyed  ; 

For  the  living  who,  to-morrow, 
Through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 

Must  all  bear  the  world's  great  sorrow ; 

For  the  immortal  who  in  silence 
Have  already  crossed  the  portal ; 

For  the  mortal  who  in  sadness 
Soon  shall  follow  the  immortal ; 

Keep  thine  arms  around  all,  O  Father !  — 
Round  lamenting  and  lamented ; 

Round  the  living  and  repenting, 
Round  the  dead  who  have  repented. 

Keep  thine  arms  round  all,  O  Father ! 

That  are  left  or  that  are  taken  ; 
For  they  all  are  needy,  whether 

The  forsaking  or  forsaken. 

New  York  Post,  July  15,  1862. 


THE  SERENE  MESSAGE  51 


THE  SERENE  MESSAGE. 

So  THOU  hast  lived  with  a  sublime  intent, — 
Hast  walked  the  earth  with  heaven-lifted  eyes, — 
And  done  no  wrong,  thy  guardians  well  may  be 
The  seas,  the  oceans  in  their  majesty, 
And  the  calm  peaks  that  tower  along  the  skies. 

If  to  thine  ear  the  patter  of  young  feet 
Has  been  like  music,  and  thy  heart  is  fain 
To  spare  the  roses  and  each  living  thing, 
Then  surely  some  time  shall  a  sweet  bird  sing 
Into  thy  grave,  thou  hast  not  lived  in  vain. 

If  thou  hast  said  one  only  word  to  cheer 

The  spirits  of  thy  fellows  on  the  earth, 

And  done  no  wrong,  then  mayst  thou  find  thy  home 

Content  beneath  the  unutterable  dome, 

And  thank  the  stars  for  thy  majestic  birth. 

So  runs  the  message  that  I  oftenest  hear 
In  this  dear  spot,  where  I  could  wish  to  lie 
If  I  were  dead,  still  listening  to  the  breeze 
Under  the  pines,  the  centenarian  trees 
That  softly  whisper  of  the  days  gone  by. 

The  Century  Magazine. 


52  COMRADES 


COMRADES. 

ONE  steed  I  have  of  common  clay, 

And  one  no  less  than  regal ; 
By  day  I  jog  on  old  Saddlebags, 

By  night  I  fly  upon  Eagle : 
To  store,  to  market,  to  field,  to  mill, 

One  plods  with  patient  patter, 
Nor  hears  along  the  far-off  heights 

The  hoofs  of  his  comrade  clatter. 

To  field,  to  market,  to  mill  he  goes, 

Nor  sees  his  comrade  gleaming 
Where  he  flies  along  the  purple  hills, 

Nor  the  flame  from  his  bridle  steaming  ; 
Sees  not  his  track,  nor  the  sparks  of  fire 

So  terribly  flashing  from  it, 
As  they  flashed  from  the  track  of  Alborak 

When  he  bravely  carried  Mahomet. 

One  steed,  in  a  few  short  years,  will  rest 

Under  the  grasses  yonder ; 
The  other  will  come  there  centuries  hence 

To  linger  and  dream  and  ponder : 
And  yet  both  steeds  are  mine  to-day, 

The  immortal  and  the  mortal ; 
One  beats  alone  the  clods  of  earth, 

One  stamps  at  heaven's  portal. 
The  Century  Magazine,  December,  1887. 


MAY   FLOWERS  53 


MAY  FLOWERS. 

Now  falls  the  happy  time  of  year 

That  brings  to  man  and  maid  good  cheer, 

When  May  comes  down  in  April  showers 

And  sprinkles  all  the  earth  with  flowers. 

Full  fair  to  see  these  early  dawns 

The  gold  mist  rising  from  the  lawns ; 

Sweet  to  see  the  dew-star  shine 

On  cowslip  or  on  columbine ; 

To  feel  the  freshness  of  the  air 

Upon  our  cheeks  and  in  our  hair. 

The  long-imprisoned  brooks  leap  out 

With  merry  bound  and  rustic  shout, 

Eager  on  the  grassy  plain 

To  meet  and  talk  and  laugh  again. 

The  wild-wood  noisy  is  with  glee ; 

There  sings  a  bird  on  every  tree  ; 

They  are  holding  social  chat ;  — 

Can  you  not  imagine  that?  — 

Sweetly  calling  to  each  other 

"  Father,"  "  Mother,"  "  Sister,"  "  Brother." 

Lo,  wherever  we  may  tread 

A  magic  carpet  is  outspread  : 

What  flower  is  that  for  which  you  look 

Along  the  margin  of  the  brook  ? 


54  MAY   FLOWERS 

The  showers  may  not  have  brought  it  yet, 

It  is  the  modest  violet. 

Here  is  arbute  and  its  kin ; 

Here  the  tall,  slim  Benjamin ; 

What  is  this  beside  the  tree? 

It  is  wood-anemone. 

The  Sun  along  the  River  walks  ; 
The  River,  to  himself  he  talks ; 
Last  night  he  saw  the  naked  moon 
Flying  onward  into  June. 
Apple-blossoms  on  the  hills, 
Laurel-blooms  beside  the  rills, 
Be  not  painted  half  so  fair 
As  our  bright  May  mornings  are. 

Barefoot,  hatless  in  the  sun, 
See  the  truant  school-boys  run ; 
Fun  and  Frolic  tread  them  nigh, 
And  mischief  with  her  beaming  eye ; 
One  thing  only  do  they  fear  — 
The  man  with  quill  behind  his  ear. 

By  the  laughter  and  the  shout 
There  must  be  May -parties  out : 
Here  is  one  ;  I  see  their  Queen 
Is  crowned  with  simple  evergreen ; 
Just  one  year  ago,  to-day, 
Edith  wore  this  crown  of  May ; 
Just  one  year  to-day  has  past 
Since  we  saw  our  Edith  last : 


MAY   FLOWERS  56 

Know  you  what  the  poets  tell 
Of  the  crowns  of  asphodel  ? 
Thus  we  may  be  right  in  saying 
"  Edith  has  but  gone  a-Maying." 

The  forest  trees  outstretch  their  arms 

And  catch  the  birds  upon  their  palms  ; 

The  poet  more  devoutly  now 

Walks  beneath  each  hanging  bough : 

What  a  blessed  office  his ! 

He,  the  Priest  of  Nature  is  ; 

He  in  poesy  distils 

All  the  murmurings  of  rills  ; 

He  translates  the  songs  of  birds 

And  to  their  music  sets  his  words. 

The  lover  more  than  ever  loves, 
He  sighs  in  fields,  he  weeps  in  groves : 
On  every  tree  he  carves  her  name, 
And  tires  the  wind's  ear  with  the  same : 
His  mistress  more  than  ever  dreams, 
Embracing  what  his  image  seems. 
But  the  cuckoo  calls  the  rain ; 
You  and  I  must  home  again : 
Meantime  I  shall  not  cease  praying 
We  may  go  once  more  a-Maying. 

New  York  Weekly  Tribune,  April  26, 1863. 


56  THE    FAIRY   BOAT 


THE   FAIRY  BOAT. 

TELL  me  what  frail  bark  or  dory 
Is  it,  that  with  nightly  glory 
Saileth  since  all  time  and  story 

Through  the  heavens  wide  and  airy  ? 
Answer  me, —  oh,  answer  soon  ! 

Is  it  sprite  or  is  it  fairy  ? 
Nay,  in  sooth  it  is  the  moon ! 

No, —  it  is  some  heaven-haunting 
Fairy,  in  her  white  canoe : 

Yes,  it  is  some  wild,  enchanting 
Fairy  faring  with  her  crew, 

In  her  bark  along  the  blue. 

Fairy,  fairy,  in  that  airy 
Fragile  bark,  oh,  let  me  carry 
Forty  friends,  nor  ever  tarry 

Till  we  reach  the  seas  that  never 
Break  in  waves  nor  dash  in  foam, — 

Till  we  reach  the  seas  that  ever 
Round  the  purple  islets  roam ! 

Then,  oh !  then,  with  easier  motion, 
Where  nor  breeze  nor  whisper  stirs, 

Let  me  float  upon  that  ocean, 
With  my  dainty,  dainty  sirs, 
With  all  my  gentle  passengers. 


THE    FAIRY  BOAT  57 

On  that  mere,  gossamery, 
I  will  steer,  cheery,  cheery, 
Steer  thy  bark,  nor  ever  weary 

Though  all  pain  or  pallor  seizes 
Cheek  or  brow  or  head  of  mine ; 

Piloting  through  happy  breezes, 
I  will  rest  that  head  on  thine. 

We  will  share  all  things  together 
With  the  friends  that  I  shall  bring ; 

All  delights  of  starry  weather ; 
And  the  crazy  world  shall  ring 
To  the  melody  we  sing. 


58  A   MIDNIGHT  CHORUS 


A  MIDNIGHT  CHORUS. 


O  ST.  CECILIA,  how  divine  that  choral ! 

O,  it  must  be  some  burst  from  Heaven's  voices, 

From  voices  dwelling  far  beyond  this  poor 

And  misty  region  of  the  day  and  night! 

And  yet  I  must  believe  it  is  not  so. 

Since  these  are  also  they  who  sang  before ; 

Only  their  chanting  then  was  in  the  glare 

And  bustle  of  the  day,  and  now  't  is  night ; 

Still  night,  that  shows  fair  Music's  form  complete 

As  it  betrays  to  light  the  hidden  stars  ; 

The  only  time  when  Music  is  herself;  — 

Music,  the  lovely  maid  that  loves  the  moon, 

And  the  blest  quiet  of  the  brooding  night ;  — 

The  sweetest  wonder  of  the  universe. 


How  all  this  common  air  which  the  low  beasts 
And  meanest  of  mankind  thus  breathe,  can  speak 
The  language  of  the  soul  so  angel-tongued, 
To  stir  the  bold  assertion  that  even  we, 
The  pale  inheritors  of  narrow  graves, 
Can  stand  in  spite  of  epitaphs,  and  are 
No  less  than  the  most  godlike  of  the  gods, 
Makes  reverie  indeed. 


A   MIDNIGHT  CHORUS  59 

But  this  which  now 
We  hear,  is  revelation !  it  is  more 
Than  caroling  and  greater  than  mere  song  : 
It  is  the  rage  and  eloquence  of  passion, — 
Now  on  the  heights  of  exultation  keyed, 
Now  on  the  deep,  dark  levels  of  despair ! 
Upon  this  strain  a  mighty  host  once  hurled 
A  host  far  mightier  down  the  steeps  of  battle, 
Beneath  a  fiery  sunset,  on  the  marge 
Of  the  resounding  sea. 


Long,  long  ago 

The  shades  of  those  lost  warriors  wandered  down 
Into  the  underworld,  chased  everywhere 
By  that  fierce-flying  paean :  long  ago 
Came  clattering  home  to  their  sweethearts  and  wives 
Those  noble  singers  who  so  sang  themselves 
Into  the  bright  arid  blinding  gaze  of  Fame. 
And  I  now  hear  the  very  lay  they  sang 
When  their  sweethearts  and  wives  rode  out  to  meet 

them, 

So  rapturous  and  yet  with  love  so  tender :  — 
Do  you  not  hear  the  chanson  of  the  knights 
Returning  from  that  happy  joust  of  battle  ? 
This  glorious  symphony,  if  it  could  go 
Where  those  lost  warriors  are,  in  that  sad  place, 
Lamenting  home  and  fate,  would  wreak  delight 
Upon  the  face  of  pain.    The  outbursting  notes 
Like  spirits  of  the  air,  sweep  the  wide  plains 
And  dash  with  glee  against  the  haughty  breasts 
Of  the  impassive  hills. 


60  A   MIDNIGHT  CHORUS 

But  hear  them  now ! 
It  is  the  mighty  choral  and  the  chant 
Of  a  great  nation,  as  if  all  the  world 
Stood  on  the  table-land  of  Time,  and  sang 
Immortal  anthem :   and  I  am  so  nerved 
With  this  high  ecstasy,  that  were  it  now 
Confronted  by  a  million  chattering  ghosts 
Of  those  lost  warriors,  with  a  single  sword 
To  dash  through  all  and  win  great  heights  beyond, — 
Armed  with  such  music,  I  should  not  despair. 
Nay,  nay  :  the  choristers  have  changed  their  notes  : 
It  is  no  more  the  tune  of  exultation, — 
It  is  a  wailing  from  the  underground, 
So  long  and  loud  and  dolorous,  it  seems 
The  hopeless  miserere  of  the  dead : 
It  is  the  lamentation  of  those  lost 
And  hapless  warriors,  who  let  fall  their  sorrow 
Forever  without  cease. 

0,  hear  you  not 

Crying  from  out  the  centre,  a  great  voice 
Of  agony,  the  voice  of  many  ages  ? 


THE  BONG  OF  THE   SAVOYARDS  61 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SAVOYARDS. 


FAR  poured  past  Broadway's  lamps  alight, 
The  tumult  of  her  motley  throng, 

When  high  and  clear  upon  the  night 
Rose  an  inspiring  song ; 

And  rang  above  the  city's  din 

To  sound  of  harp  and  violin ; 
A  simple  but  a  manly  strain, 
And  ending  with  the  brave  refrain — 

Courage !  courage,  mon  camarade ! 


And  now  where  rose  that  song  of  cheer, 
Both  old  and  young  stood  still  for  joy  ; 

Or  from  the  windows  hung  to  hear 
The  children  of  Savoy  : 

And  many  an  eye  with  rapture  glowed, 

And  saddest  hearts  forgot  their  load, 
And  feeble  souls  grew  strong  again, 
So  stirring  was  the  brave  refrain  — 

Courage !  courage,  mon  camarade ! 


62  THE  SONG   OP  THE    SAVOYARDS 


Alone,  with  only  silence  there, 
Awaiting  his  life's  welcome  close, 

A  sick  man  lay,  when  on  the  air 
That  clarion  arose ; 

So  sweet  the  thrilling  cadence  rang, 

It  seemed  to  him  an  angel  sang, 
And  sang  to  him  ;  and  he  would  fain 
Have  died  upon  that  heavenly  strain- 

Courage !  courage,  mon  camarade  ! 


A  sorrow-stricken  man  and  wife, 
With  nothing  left  them  but  to  pray, 

Heard  streaming  over  their  sad  life 
That  grand,  heroic  lay  : 

And  through  the  mist  of  happy  tears 

They  saw  the  promise-laden  years ; 
And  in  their  joy  they  sang  again, 
And  caroled  high  the  fond  refrain  — 

Courage !  courage,  mon  camarade ! 


Two  artiste,  in  the  cloud  of  gloom 

Which  hung  upon  their  hopes  deferred, 

Resounding  through  their  garret-room 
That  noble  chanson  heard  ; 

And  as  the  night  before  the  day 

Their  weak  misgivings  fled  away  ; 
And  with  the  burden  of  the  strain 
They  made  their  studio  ring  again  — 

Courage !  courage,  mon  camarade ! 


THE  SONG   OF  THE    SAVOYARDS  63 

Two  poets,  who  in  patience  wrought 

The  glory  of  an  aftertime, — 
Lords  of  an  age  which  knew  them  not, 

Heard  rise  that  lofty  rhyme ; 
And  on  their  hearts  it  fell,  as  falls 
The  sunshine  upon  prison-walls ; 

And  one  caught  up  the  magic  strain 

And  to  the  other  sang  again  — 
Courage !  courage,  mon  camarade ! 

And  unto  one  who,  tired  of  breath, 

And  day  and  night  and  name  and  fame, 
Held  to  his  lips  a  glass  of  death, 

That  song  a  savior  came ; 
Beseeching  him  from  his  despair, 
As  with  the  passion  of  a  prayer ; 

And  kindling  in  his  heart  and  brain 

The  valor  of  its  blest  refrain  — 
Courage !  courage,  mon  camarade  ! 

0  thou,  with  earthly  ills  beset, 
Call  to  thy  lips  those  words  of  joy, 

And  never  in  thy  life  forget 
The  brave  song  of  Savoy ! 

For  those  dear  words  may  have  the  power 

To  cheer  thee  in  thy  darkest  hour ; 
The  memory  of  that  loved  refrain 
Bring  gladness  to  thy  heart  again  !  — 

Courage !  courage,  mon  camarade ! 

Scrtimtr'a  Magazine,  June,  1875. 


64  WEBSTER 


WEBSTER. 


Inscribed  to  BENJAMIN  PIERCE  CHENEY,  of  Boston,  who,  in  the 
spirit  of  the  ancient  Greeks,  erected  a  statue  at  Concord,  N.  H., 
on  the  17th  of  June,  1886,  to  the  memory  of  WEBSTER. 


I. 


HE  TROD  no  deck ;  he  rode  no  horse ;  he  bore 

No  truncheon  and  no  sword.    He  only  sate 

A  simple  Senator  within  the  gate  ; 

But  when  he  spoke,  men  listened :  from  every  door 

Surged  round  him  like  a  sea  without  a  shore  — 

This  man  of  the  majestic  mien,  who  late 

On  his  own  shoulders  had  borne  up  the  State ; 

Hearts  beat ;  eyes  glistened.    He  would  speak  once 

more. 

The  thunders  gathered  on  his  awful  brow ; 
He  spoke.    We  know  the  story.    He  who  shone 
On  all  the  summits  of  occasion,  now 
Shone  upon  this ;  and  made  the  day  his  own : 
He  did  but  speak  within  the  Senate  Hall 
Some  pregnant  hours,  yet  in  that  time  saved  all. 


WEBSTKR  66 

II. 

He  died.    His  living  eyes  were  never  bent 

Upon  the  sun  that  lit  his  country's  woes ; 

But  in  a  decade  that  red  sun  arose  — 

And  on  his  tomb  its  warning  rays  were  sent : 

And  now,  throughout  the  war,  from  tent  to  tent, 

Great  Webster  walked  in  scorn  of  death's  repose, 

And  sat  by  every  camp-fire.    Unto  those 

He  showed  what  Chippewa,  Buena  Vista  meant, 

Fort  Erie,  Palo  Alto,  Lundy's  Lane ; 

To  these  discoursed  of  Concord,  Plymouth-shore 

And  Bunker  Hill ;  and  heard  their  loud  huzza, 

When  —  where  he  pointed  —  rose  to  sight  again, 

Fold  over  fold  unfurling,  star  by  star, 

The  old  flag  sweeping  through  the  heavens  once  more. 

III. 

New  Hampshire  bore  him  ;  nurtured  him ;  a  stern, 

Rough  nurse,  but  still,  still  at  his  mother's  hearth  : 

Ah,  Heaven,  that  he  should  sleep  in  other  earth, 

Even  though  in  Massachusetts !  even  though  his  urn 

Stands  by  the  sea,  to  make  the  white  ships  turn 

Instinctively !    For  what  is  all  this  worth, 

When  I  can  hear  her  voice  who  gave  him  birth  — 

And  know  how  strong  her  tender  heart  doth  yearn  — 

Calling  his  mighty  ashes  ?    Attica 

No  less  had  sighed  for  her  Demosthenes : 

So  in  her  granite  hills  New  Hampshire  stands  — 

More  proud,  yet  more  forlorn  than  even  Greece, 

Remembering  such  a  son ;  and  looking  far 

Where  shines  a  tomb  beside  the  ocean  sands. 

New  York  Observer,  June  17, 1886. 


OLD   FRIENDS 


OLD  FRIENDS. 

I. 

HAVE  you  ever  trod  the  height 
Whence  the  lamps  of  faith  and  reason 

Flash  the  vista  into  sight 
Of  that  glorious  future  season 

Prophesied  through  many  ages 

By  the  best  of  bards  and  sages  ? 

II. 

Have  you  from  that  shining  height 
Heard  the  beautiful  descanting 

Of  the  bards  whose  names  I  write, 
That  have  never  ceased  their  chanting 

Though  the  winter's  ice  hath  bound  them, 

And  the  fields  are  frozen  round  them  ? 

III. 

Still  they  sing ;  for  winter's  cold 
Is  but  round  them  and  not  of  them  ; 

They  are  neither  one  grown  old 
In  despite  the  snows  above  them ; 

Nay,  if  years  can  tell  the  story 

Then  the  gods  themselves  were  hoary. 


OLD  FRIENDS  67 

IV. 

Still  they  sing,  so  sweet,  so  sweet, 

Songs  of  beauty  past  denying, 
And  the  years  may  beat  and  beat 

Thick  as  flakes  of  winter  flying, — 
Still  we  shall  expect  to  hear  them 
And  sometime  to  journey  near  them. 

V. 

Earth  is  but  a  stopping  place ;  — 
We  are  surely  what  our  souls  are, 

Ready  for  a  mighty  race 
Without  knowing  what  our  goals  are, 

Though  by  many  signs  divining 

Welcome  in  yon  heaven  shining. 

VI. 

If  the  wing  proclaims  the  air 
And  the  air  the  wing  proclaimeth, 

It  is  no  mere  dreamland  there 
Which  the  soul  ite  kingdom  nameth ; 

But  a  glorious,  high  dominion 

Worthy  an  immortal  pinion. 

VII. 

So,  perchance,  Orion-wards 
We  may  sometime  sail  together 

With  our  very  noble  bards 
Through  the  bright  Empyrean  weather ; 

Or  at  little  distance  follow 

As  the  Muses  did  Apollo. 


OLD  FRIENDS 


VIII. 

Bard  of  Essex,  though  thy  song 
May  be  richer  then  and  fuller, 

As  we  sail  the  stars  along, 
We  shall  not  forget  "  Maud  Muller  "  :  — 

For  thy  fame's  eterne  survival, 

Autumn  will  be  winter's  rival. 

IX. 

Thou  mayest  louder  sing  to  us, 
Bard  of  Suffolk,  but,  O,  never 

Shall  thy  "  chambered  Nautilus  " 
Quite  forgotten  be  forever ! 

That  "  Last  Leaf,"  through  all  the  ages, 

Will  yet  rustle  in  thy  pages. 

X. 

Bard  of  Surrey,  though  thy  lay 
Trance  afar  the  Jovian  ridges, 

Still  thy  brook  will  sing  its  way 
Past  the  all-enchanted  bridges ; 

And  thy  Knights  will  keep  their  tourney 

Though  the  earth  forget  her  journey. 
Boston  Advertiser,  November  15, 1889. 


MARGIE  69 


MARGIE. 

THAT  lovely  brook,  I  see  it 

Still  flashing  in  the  Bun  ; 

And  she  and  I  are  children 

Once  more  in  Idlington  ; 

And  Margie  on  the  bank  there, 

I  see  as  she  used  to  look, 

Those  summer  days  when  she  played  with  me, 

On  the  borders  of  the  brook. 


What  wonderful  ships  and  shallops 
I  made  for  Margie  then, 
With  leaves  and  grass  for  cargoes, 
And  sticks  and  straws  for  men  :  — 
And  what  brave  names  we  gave  them — 
"  Orlando,"  "  George-a-Green," 
"  Sir  Galahad,"  "  King  Pellemore," 
"  The  Cid  "  and  "  Sir  Cauline ! " 


We  cared  not  much  for  traffic, 
Yet  our  captains  and  our  mates 
Brought  often  the  honey  of  Hybla, 
And  Tunis  figs  and  dates ; 


70 


But  when  love  called  or  honor, 
We  sent  our  vessels  out 
In  aid  of  all  who  needed  them, 
With  many  a  cheer  and  shout. 

We  wrote  to  Robinson  Crusoe, 

That  we  hoped,  now  Friday  was  gone, 

He  would  come  straight  over  and  see  us, 

With  all  his  goat-skins  on ; 

And  bring  the  poll-parrot  with  him, 

So  when  they  stepped  on  shore, 

We  should  know  them  both  and  take  them  home, 

Never  to  wander  more. 

As  the  seasons  changed,  so  we  did ;  — 
In  spring  we  dreamed  of  fame ; 
And  in  summer  of  autumn's  riches ; 
And  when  October  came, 
We  stripped  the  yellow  gold-trees 
And  sent  our  ill-got  gain 
In  caravels  to  Andaluce, 
Across  the  Spanish  Main. 

That  lovely  brook, —  I  know  not 
Just  where  it  comes  from  now, — 
But  in  those  days  it  wandered  — 
As  Margie  could  avow — 
Eight  out  from  far  Cipango, 
And  merrily  ran  on 
Till  it  came  to  the  fairy  fields  this  side 
The  valley  of  Avalon. 


MARGIE  71 

It  heard  in  Sherwood  Forest 
Brave  Robin's  bugle-calls ;( 
And  carried  off  the  music 
To  dash  it  on  the  walls 
Of  the  city  of  Manoa ; 
And  could  be  seen  afar, 
In  clearest  air  from  Samarcand, 
And  near  to  Candahar. 

Sometimes  I  see  the  windings 
Of  that  brook  as  in  a  dream, 
While  it  flows  away  to  the  sunset ; 
And  here  and  there  the  stream 
Is  touched  with  a  light  so  tender 
That  it  seems  to  my  loving  eyes, 
The  course  of  a  beautiful  human  life 
Ending  in  Paradise. 

And  plans  and  schemes  are  the  vessels, 
And  hope  is  the  wind  that  blows, 
And  all  good  aims  are  the  harbors, 
And  time  is  the  tide  that  flows ;  — 
And  then  again  all  changes, 
And  I  see  ourselves  once  more  — 
Dear  Margie  and  a  little  boy 
Playing  along  the  shore. 

Youth's  Companion,  May  21,  1891. 


72  SAINT  GOETHE'S  NIGHT 


SAINT  GOETHE'S  NIGHT. 

WHERE  calm  in  bronze  great  Goethe  stood, 
The  old  man  dropped  his  load  of  wood, 

And  clasping  his  brown  hands  in  prayer 
Knelt  like  another  statue  there  : 

One  only  of  the  passers-by 

On  Gottlieb  turned  a  kindly  eye ; 

For  never  before,  nor  by  any  hap, 
Did  sweeter  soul  tip  student's  cap  ; 

And  when  the  old  man  raised  his  head, 
"  Your  servant,  Sir ! "  tall  Martin  said. 

"  I  know  not,"  the  old  man  replied, 
"  What  saint  this  is  nor  when  he  died ; 

"  But  in  all  my  life  I  have  not  seen 
So  dear  a  saint  in  face  and  mien." 

"Ay,"  said  Martin ;  "  Saint  Goethe  here 

Is  the  saint  for  me  of  all  saints  in  the  year  "  ; 

And  a  smile  like  a  burst  of  sunshine  broke 
Over  the  young  man's  face  while  he  spoke. 


SAINT  GOETHE'S  NIGHT  73 

"  O,  then,  I  shall  sell  my  bundle  of  pine," 
Old  Gottlieb  replied,  "  for  bread  and  wine  " ! 

"  You  look  so  tired,"  stout  Martin  said, 
"  I  will  carry  the  pack  instead ; 

"And  you  and  I  will  seek  some  hall 
Where  they  hold  the  dear  saint's  festival." 

Not  slowly  Gottlieb's  heart  now  beat, 
As  they  suddenly  entered  from  the  street, 

Where,  thick  as  trees  in  his  mountain  wood, 
A  hundred  more  like  Martin  stood, 

Cap  on  head  and  glass  in  hand, 
Chanting  a  song  of  the  Fatherland ; 

And  Gottlieb  felt  his  heart  grow  young 
To  hear  the  song  the  Burschen  sung. 

And  while  all  gazed  with  moistened  eyes, 

"  O  Jove,"  one  cried,  "  what  a  prize!  what  a  prize ! 

"  This  is  the  wood  to  make  burn  bright 
The  torches  of  Saint  Goethe's  night ! 

"  You  may  call  it  pine  if  you  like,  but  we 
Know  well  the  heart  of  the  sandal-tree ; 

"  Perceive  you  not  the  rich  perfume 
It  sheds  already  through  the  room  ? 

"  It  is  an  odor  that  but  for  the  smell 

Of  this  cloud  of  smoke,  you  would  know  full  well ; 


74  SAINT  GOETHE'S  NIGHT 

"  Nay,  nay,  the  saint  would  be  shocked,  indeed, 
Should  we  take  for  nothing  the  wood  we  need  ! 

"  We  must  give  you  at  least  a  bran-new  suit 
And  a  cap  and  boots  and  a  warm  surtout, 

"And  bread  and  wine  and  beer  afoam, 
And  a  donkey  to  carry  you  safely  home." 

Grand,  at  length,  in  his  new  corduroy, 
And  weeping  still,  though  full  of  joy, 

The  woodman  followed  the  setting  sun, 
On  and  on,  till  the  day  was  done. 

Long  time  had  Gottlieb's  wife  to  wait 
The  step  of  her  goodman  at  the  gate  ; 

So  sick  at  heart  she  could  not  spread 
The  noonday  meal,  but  sat  instead 

At  her  spinning-wheel  and  watched  the  hour 
On  the  dial  of  the  distant  tower, 

While  her  frequent  glance  went  up  and  down 
The  dusty  highway  to  the  town  ; 

But  all  in  vain ;  until  at  last 
The  sun  set  and  she  saw  aghast 

Near  the  gate  in  the  dusk,  a  ghost  or  a  witch, 
Or  a  thief  or  a  bear  —  she  knew  not  which : 

But  when  old  Gottlieb's  donkey  brayed, 
Fraii  Barbara  fell  on  her  knees  and  prayed  ; 


SAINT  GOETHE'S  NIGHT  75 

For  she  saw  no  longer  a  witch  or  an  elf, 

But  believed  it  no  less  than  the  devil  himself. 

Now  suddenly  broke  upon  their  ears 
A  distant  sound,  as  of  mighty  cheers  ; 

And  turning,  they  saw  far  up  and  down, 
Lights  coming  toward  them  from  the  town  ; 

And  gazed  intent,  while  nearer  drew 
The  long  procession,  two  by  two : 

But  when  at  last  by  his  own  gate 
He  saw  the  gleaming  torches  wait, 

And  the  same  chant  rose,  even  more  sublime, 
Which  he  had  heard  in  the  morning-time, 

Then  Gottlieb  murmured  :  "  These  must  be 
The  lads  who  bought  my  wood  of  me." 

And  while  he  marveled,  the  bright  array 
Formed  into  ranks  and  moved  away : 

Long  time  the  woodman  and  his  dame 
Watched  the  bright  but  lessening  flame 

Of  the  torches  burning  clear ; 
And  heard  afar,  or  seemed  to  hear, 

The  burden  of  the  song  that  still 
Ran  echoing  from  hill  to  hill ; 

But  when  the  flooding  moonlight  made 
The  far-off  stars  and  torches  fade 


76  SAINT  GOETHE'S  NIGHT 

They  turned,  surprised  that  now  no  more 
They  saw  the  white  walk  by  the  door ; 

But  in  its  place  a  glittering  show 
Of  heaped-up  hampers  all  arow ; 

And  Gottlieb,  knowing  well  whence  came 
This  treasure-trove,  now  told  his  dame, 

In  tones  that  trembled  with  delight, 
Whose  wood  had  made  the  torches  bright ; 

And  what  good  saint  had  just  sent  down 
The  lads  that  loved  him  from  the  town. 


THE  FIGHTING   PARSON  77 


THE  FIGHTING  PARSON. 

IT  WAS  brave  young  Parson  Webster, 
Hie  father  a  parson  before  him, 
And  here  in  this  town  of  Temple 
The  people  used  to  adore  him ; 
And  the  minute-men  from  all  quarters 
That  morning  had  grounded  their  arms 
Round  the  meeting-house  on  the  hilltop, 
Looking  down  on  Temple  farms. 


Dear  to  the  Puritan  soldier 

The  food  which  his  meeting-house  offered, 

And  especially  dear  the  fine  manna 

Which  the  young  Temple  minister  proffered ; 

And  believe  as  he  might  in  his  firelock, 

His  bayonet,  or  his  sword, 

The  minute-man's  heart  was  hopeless 

If  not  filled  with  the  strength  of  the  Lord. 


The  minute-man  ever  and  always 

Waited  the  signal  of  warning, 

And  he  never  dreamed  in  the  evening 

Where  his  prayers  would  ascend  the  next  morning ; 


78  THE   FIGHTING    PARSON 

And  they  even  said  that  the  parson 
Undoubtedly  preached  his  best 
When  his  musket  stood  in  the  pulpit 
Ready  for  use  with  the  rest. 

Sad  was  the  minister's  message, 
And  many  a  heart  beat  faster, 
And  many  a  soft  eye  glistened, 
Whenever  the  voice  of  the  pastor 
Dwelt  on  the  absent  dear  ones 
Who  had  followed  their  country's  call 
To  the  distant  camp,  or  the  battle, 
Or  the  frowning  fortress-wall. 

And  now  when  near  to  "  fifteenthly," 
And  the  urchins  thought  of  their  nuncheon, 
And  into  the  half-curtained  windows 
Hotter  and  hotter  the  sun  shone, 
And  the  redbreast  dozed  in  the  branches, 
And  the  crow  on  the  pine  tree's  top, 
And  the  squirrel  was  lost  in  his  musings, 
The  sermon  came  to  a  stop. 

For  sharp  on  the  turnpike  the  clatter 
Of  galloping  hoofs  resounded, 
And  the  granite  ring  of  the  roadway 
Louder  and  louder  sounded ; 
And  now  no  longer  the  redbreast 
Was  inclined  to  be  dull  that  day, 
And  now  no  longer  the  sexton 
Slept  in  his  usual  way. 


THE  FIGHTING   PARSON  79 

But  all  sprang  up  on  the  instant, 

And  the  widest  of  eyes  grew  wider 

While  on  towards  the  porch,  like  a  tempest, 

Came  sweeping  the  horse  and  its  rider ; 

And  now  from  the  din  of  the  hoof-beats 

A  trumpet  voice  leapt  out, 

And,  tingling  to  its  rafters, 

The  church  was  alive  with  the  shout, — 

"  Burgoyne  's  at  Ticonderoga : 
Would  you  have  the  old  fort  surrender?" 
"  No,  no!  "  cried  the  parson ;  "  New  Hampshire 
Will  send  the  last  man  to  defend  her ! " 
But  before  he  could  shoulder  his  musket 
A  Tory  sang  up  from  below, 
"  I  hear  a  great  voice  out  of  heaven,  sir, 
Warning  us  not  to  go." 

Quick  from  the  pulpit  descending, 
With  the  agile  step  of  a  lion, — 
"The  voice  you  hear  is  from  hell,  sir! " 
Replied  the  young  servant  of  Zion. 
And  out  through  the  open  doorway, 
And  on  past  the  porch  he  strode, 
And  the  congregation  came  after, 
And  gathered  beside  the  road. 

Sadly  enough  the  colonel, 
The  minute-men  all  arraying, 
From  the  dusty  cocked  hat  of  the  rider 
Drew  the  lots  for  going  or  staying. 


80  THE   FIGHTING   PARSON 

Then  waving  his  hat  as  he  took  it, 
And  putting  his  spurs  to  his  mare, 
The  stranger  rode  off  to  New  Ipswich 
In  a  cheering  that  rent  the  air. 

Worse  than  the  shock  of  battle 

Now  came  the  sad  leave-taking, 

And  to  mothers  and  maids  and  matrons 

The  deepest  of  grief  and  heart-aching; 

And  far  on  the  road  through  the  mountains 

Whence  the  rider  had  just  come, 

They  followed  the  minute-men  marching 

To  the  sound  of  the  fife  and  the  drum. 

Long  dead  have  they  been  who  sat  there 
At  that  feast  of  things  eternal  — 
Long  dead  the  laymen,  the  deacons, 
The  lawyer,  the  doctor,  the  colonel ; 
Long  dead  the  youths  and  the  maidens, 
And  long  on  the  graves  of  all 
Have  the  summers  and  the  winters 
Their  leaves  and  their  snows  let  fall. 

But  whenever  I  come  to  the  churchyard, 
Where,  by  the  side  of  the  pastor, 
They  afterwards  laid  the  colonel, 
His  friend  in  success  and  disaster, 
I  see  again  on  the  common 
The  minute-men  all  in  array, 
And  again  I  behold  the  departure, 
The  pastor  leading  the  way. 


THE  FIGHTING   PARSON  81 

And  I  think  of  the  scene  when  his  comrades 

Brought  back  the  young  pastor,  dying, 

To  his  home  in  the  house  of  the  colonel ; 

And  how,  on  his  death-bed  lying, 

He  took  the  hand  that  was  offered, 

And,  gazing  far  into  the  night, 

Whispered,  "  I  die  for  my  country  — 

I  have  fought  —  I  have  fought  the  good  fight." 

The  Century  Magazine,  May,  1890. 


THE   DRUMMER 


THE  DRUMMER, 

AWAY  back  in  those  happy  times 

When  we  had  little  left  to  vex  us, 
On  sea  or  land,  save  poets'  rhymes 

And  talk  about  annexing  Texas ; 
While  yet  with  all  our  men  and  boys 

"  Forward,  march ! "  was  quite  the  fashion, 
And  the  liveliest  of  our  joys  — 

The  old  military  passion  — 
Was  not  yet  grown  cold  and  numb ; 


While  still  full  many  a  household  niche 

Enshrined  the  old-time  regimentals, 
And  town  and  country  were  yet  rich 

With  relics  of  the  Continentals  ; 
While  still  in  splendid  motley  dressed, 

Wonderful  to  all  beholders, 
Men  were  glad  to  march  abreast 

With  their  muskets  on  their  shoulders, 
To  the  sound  of  fife  and  drum  — 


In  one  of  those  far  distant  years, 
About  the  time  of  early  tillage, 

The  proud  Bandana  Fusil eers 
Were  forming  just  above  the  village, 


THE  DRUMMER 


Full  fifty  and  two  hundred  strong, 
For  their  usual  march  of  glory 

Down  the  turnpike  wide  and  long, 
Little  dreaming  the  whole  story 

Would  be  told  in  days  to  come, 


When  suddenly  the  old  snare-drum 

Pealed  out  so  sharp  and  rang  so  cheery 
That  every  man  was  on  the  plumb, 

However  old,  however  weary ; 
And  lo,  as  down  the  lines  they  gazed, 

Wondering  what  could  ail  the  drummer, 
In  his  place  they  saw,  amazed, 

The  most  curious  newcomer 
Who  had  ever  drummed  a  drum. 


For  all  the  world  as  big  around 

And  jolly  as  a  Punchinello, 
His  white  hat  with  bright  scarlet  bound, 

Hie  old  green  jacket  faced  with  yellow  ; 
But  who  he  was,  or  whence  had  fared 

That  most  iridescent  figure, 
No  one  knew,  and  no  one  cared, 

While  with  such  immortal  vigor 
He  discoursed  upon  the  drum. 


It  was  a  beat  that  would  have  stirred 
The  pulses  of  the  very  coldest, 

And  such  a  stroke  had  not  been  heard 
Within  the  memory  of  the  oldest. 


84  THE   DRUMMER 

Down  on  the  drum's  defenseless  head 
Fell  the  sticks  with  such  a  clatter 

As  few  men,  alive  or  dead, 
Ever  dreamed  of,  for  that  matter  — 

Drum,  drum,  drum,  der-urn,  drum,  drum ! 

And  now  from  every  side  uprose, 

Responsive  to  that  roll  and  rattle, 
Great  rounds  of  cheers  resembling  those 

Which  rang  along  the  Concord  battle, 
When,  pale  as  death  with  patriot  ire, 

The  undaunted  Buttrick  shouted, 
"  Soldiers,  fire !  For  God's  sake,  fire !  " 

And  the  British  troops  were  routed, 
And  at  last  the  war  was  come. 


And  so  the  glorious  march  began 

With  here  an  opening,  there  a  wheeling, 
As  if  it  were  a  living  fan, 

In  part  concealing,  part  revealing, 
The  secret  of  those  fine  deploys 

So  bewildering  to  the  senses 
Of  the  truant  village  boys 

Who  now  lined  the  walls  and  fences, 
Thinking  of  the  day  to  come. 


Ah,  nevermore  along  that  street 
Will  martial  music  more  ecstatic 

Sweethearts  and  wives  and  children  greet 
In  parlor,  oriel,  or  attic  ; 


THE   DRUMMER  85 

Ah,  nevermore  to  cheer  and  shout 
Down  that  turnpike  long  and  sandy 

Will  such  wizard  notes  ring  out 
Of  our  "  Yankee  Doodle  Dandy," 

From  that  old  colonial  drum. 

Ah  me!  ah  me!  to  hear  again 

•   That  ruddy  and  gray-headed  scorner 

Of  all  the  woes  that  time  can  rain 

As  down  he  swept  round  Tanyard  Corner 
Or  when  he  drummed  his  very  best 

Near  the  elm  tree  by  the  Prestons', 
Or  with  very  special  zest 

At  the  halt  in  front  of  Weston's, 
Known  so  well  in  times  to  come ! 

For  here  it  was  upon  that  day 

The  drummer  gave  his  final  touches ; 
And  here  it  was  that,  strange  to  say, 

While  creeping  by  upon  his  crutches, 
The  oldest  man  the  country  round 

Suddenly  before  the  drummer 
Stopped  and  gazed  as  one  spellbound. 

"  No  man,"  sighed  he,  "  but  young  Plummet 
Could  so  play  upon  a  drum." 

"  But  he  is  dead,  no  doubt,  no  doubt." 
And  while  he  stood  there  marveling  greatly, 

The  other  in  his  turn  spoke  out, 
"  It 's  Boynton,  whom  we  called  '  The 
Stately.'" 


THE   DRUMMER 


Ah,  what  a  meeting !  Gracious  heaven ! 

While  in  tears  they  kept  repeating 
"  Bennington  "  and  "  seventy-seven." 

"  What  a  meeting !  what  a  meeting !  " 
Till  it  seemed  no  end  would  come. 

Of  all  that  saw  no  eye  was  dry ; 

And  nothing  then  would  do  but  straightway 
To  seize  a  carriage  that  stood  by, 

Magnificent,  in  Barret's  gateway, 
And  carry  both  to  Boynton's  door. 

"Piny  Farm,"  from  that  same  summer, 
Was  the  hospitable  shore 

Where  the  old  and  world-tossed  drummer 
Lived  for  many  years  to  come. 

The  Century  Magazine,  July,  1891. 


AD  ASTRA  87 


AD  ASTRA. 


IF  THOU  hast  drained  to  the  lees 
The  cup  of  inglorious  ease, 
Think  now  on  the  mighty  men  ; 
Dream  thou  dost  hear  again 
The  voice  of  Miltiades 
And  the  rustle  of  his  laurels. 


See  the  stern  purpose  rise 

To  CorteY  glittering  eyes  — 

To  cut  off'  all  retreat 

See  him  sink  every  ship  in  his  fleet, 

Then  sweep  to  his  golden  prize 

With  not  one  plank  behind  him. 


Dost  believe  all  is  over  and  done 
And  no  hope  is  under  the  sun  ? 
Then  think  on  the  mighty  men ; 
Dream  thou  canst  hear  again 
The  great  shouts  of  Timoleon 
That  rallied  the  flying  army. 


88 


And  yet  not  alone  for  the  past 
Was  the  mold  of  heroes  cast : 
Let  the  Alps  and  the  Andes  say 
What  breed  there  is  to-day ; 
And  the  poles,  and  the  ocean  vast, 
And  the  burning  waste  of  Sahara. 

Think  of  the  soul  that  needs 
No  background  for  its  deeds  ; 
Of  him  who  bravely  bears 
A  mountain  of  lifelong  cares  ; 
Of  the  heart  that  aches  and  bleeds 
And  dies,  but  never  surrenders. 

O,  true  man,  bear  thy  pains 

And  count  thy  losses  gains ; 

Believe  in  the  brave  whom  alone 

Heaven's  eye  hath  seen  and  known  ; 

For  as  surely  as  justice  reigns, 

Their  reward  will  shine  like  their  valor. 

The  Century  Magazine,  December,  1888. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


Form  L-9-15jn-7,'32 


PS 

1103  Blood  - 
B85A17   Selected 


\\03 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    001372296    2 


UNIVERSITY  nf  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 
UBRABY 


